Numbers
by Eeshydoesit
Summary: The brothers are arguing. Like usual. Over something that, so far as Iggy knows, isn't either of their business. Except it is Mickey's. Kind of. But not really, since he and Ian broke it off. Still, Mickey's not just going to stand around with his thumb up his ass, letting Ian get the shit kicked out of him over Mickey's heated slip of the tongue. IanxMickey. R&R please
1. Chapter 1

**Numbers**

**Chapter One**

Sexuality is relative. Mickey knows this. He's never said it out loud. But he does know. Everyone scores somewhere on the one to ten scale of which side he or she bats for. One is extremely straight and ten is all the colors of the rainbow. No one is completely on one side of the scale. Maybe someone might score a two or a nine, but never a one or ten. Mickey thinks he's probably a five or maybe even a six. Ian's probably a nine. The only other dude Mickey had fucked was around a three or four.

He stares up at his ceiling, throwing a bright blue bouncy ball he found this morning to knock against his poster of Vanessa Lake. Plastered crooked above his bed, right beside of the array of random sharpie drawings his brothers thought were hilarious. Last year, before getting arrested for a second time, Mickey had painted over a few of the sketches with one of the many spray paint cans littering his floor. So now there's a big green streak where Iggy had written _Mickey sucks cocks in hell _in black permanent marker. Iggy had written it to be funny. As a joke. Because as far as Mickey's brothers were concerned, so far as their knowledge stretched, Mickey scored a one on the sexuality scale. It had been a joke, and Mickey had snorted at it, played along, wrestled around until Iggy kneed him in the lip. But Mickey had painted over it because their father wouldn't have thought it was a funny joke. Also because Mickey didn't want to leave his staying in the closet for chance. And it is that need to stay hidden that has Mickey laying on his back, a bundle of nerves and near nauseous. He hears Iggy rummaging around in the bathroom. Continuing to bang the ball on his ceiling, Mickey chews on his bottom lips, arches his brows, and turns his head a little, looking into the bathroom, sort of. His head is at the foot of his bed.

"You about fucking done in there?" Mickey asks rudely.

"Why are you in such a damned hurry all of the sudden?" Iggy bites back, moderately chill. "You didn't even want to do this earlier," he states truthfully.

"Maybe because I just got out of the fucking pin less than five hours ago," Mickey quips, this time banging the ball a little too hard. It shakes the left side of his room when the ball its the ceiling. The ball goes off course, flies willy-nilly across the room and smashes into a pile of records, knocking some the discs out of the cases and onto the pile of trash that is Mickey's floor. Mickey watches this chaos, only annoyed when he sees a chip in one of his records. Calmly, yet grinding his teeth, Mickey says, "Don't fucking feel like going back in just yet."

"Chill out, Mickey," Iggy sighs and the rummaging stops momentarily. He pauses, then says,"No one's going to jail over consensual sex, for Christ's sake."

Mickey hears something clatter to the floor and whips his head back to try and get another look inside. He flips onto his side for a better view. "The hell are you doing in there, man?" Mickey growls. Impatient because he wants to get this plan of Iggy's over with.

"Shit," Iggy whispers, voice strained like he is bending over to pick up whatever he's broken. "Dad's razor just broke all to hell," he grumbles.

Rolling his eyes, Mickey practically crawls off of his bed, dusts himself off, then stands in the bathroom doorway, propping himself up on the frame. He frowns down at the sight before him. Iggy is now sitting crossed legged in front of the tub, pieces of their father's trimmer set all around him. He looks up at Mickey, guilty and aggravated. One emotion Mickey can identify with; he's pretty fucking aggravated himself.

"He's gonna fucking shoot me over this," Iggy huffs, angrily throwing one of the razor guards against the tile harshly.

Mickey snorts. "Yeah, fucking break it worse, that'll fix it, you douche," he mumbles, stepping inside to start picking up the pieces.

Iggy smirks up at Mickey, beady eyes scrunched, sarcastic, and says, "Why yes, I am sanitary."

"Fucking hardly," Mickey laughs and stars throwing the pieces into the trashcan. Which is pretty empty, considering how filthy the bathroom is.

Iggy laughs back and starts shooting some of the pieces into the can like basketballs, raised arms and all. The guy's a dork, and Mickey has harshly told Iggy so numerous times. Ultimately that trait is the only reason Mickey hangs around Iggy more than Colin, though. Iggy feels more on Mickey's level. Is easier to deal with, kind of like Mandy but to a lesser extent. Colin kind of skeeves Mickey out. Sometimes. Iggy mostly just makes Mickey face-palm. Mandy's simply Mickey's favorite.

When the pieces are all thrown out, Mickey tells Iggy to blame it on Mandy because she gets away with murder anyway. Can do no wrong in Terry's eyes. Iggy shrugs at this and pulls a face that Mickey isn't used to seeing. Something between unsure and suspicious mingled with a hint of sympathy. The expression makes Iggy look way younger than almost nineteen years old. "Nah," Iggy begins, "Mandy and dad ain't getting on so well lately."

Mickey knits his brow. Leans back on the sink, onto his palms, arms arched awkwardly. He waits for Iggy to elaborate, then remembers Iggy is as much of a talker as Mickey is. So he gives his brother an expectant look.

Iggy scowls a little. "I don't know," he says fast, like the sentence is one word. The struggles to his feet, saying slower, "All they fucking do is fight. Have been for like four months now."

Unable to help his mind immediately going where is does, Mickey says, "She's probably screwing someone he knows." And she probably is because, as much as Mickey loves his sister, Mandy is a proper slut. Seems to be, anyway. And clingy as fuck. She has abandonment issues, just like the rest of the siblings. Except each one of the Milkovich kids expresses their emotion differently. With Mandy, it's being slutty and clingy; with Colin it's being a borderline sociopath; with Iggy it's cleaving to Colin like a shadow; and with Mickey it's pushing everything away before getting close enough that losing whatever it is will hurt. Mickey knows this and came to terms with it the night of his last arrest. And the fact has been weighing on Mickey recently.

Iggy licks his lips and rolls his eyes while scratching his neck. "Yeah, I don't know," he says. "Maybe. But I think has more to do with the clinic bills she's been getting."

"Clinic?" Mickey's blood runs cold. "If she's fucking knocked up I'll kill the sonofabitch," he growls, already forming fists behind himself, temples pulsing. The last thing this family needs is a baby running around this cesspool. Another mouth to feed.

Iggy takes in a deep breath, scooting Mickey aside and fucking with his longish hair that's clean for once. Staring at his reflection in the mirror and rubbing his scruffy chin. Mickey stands off to the side, annoyed that's he has been literally manhandled by his own fucking brother. But he doesn't do or say anything about it because Iggy looks pretty pissed off now. Livid, Mickey would say. And in all honestly, Iggy and Mickey are about match when it comes to taking and giving punches. Mickey can always take Colin, but with Iggy its usually a painful tie. Mickey likes his spleen and Iggy probably doesn't feel like using crutches again.

"She ain't now," Iggy says simply, but his voice is tight.

"What?" Mickey snaps, eyes wide. He shoves his brother's shoulder some, forgetting his previous thought process as soon as he grasps Iggy's words.

Iggy's lips go into a thin scowl. He turns his eyes on Mickey and then walks out of the bathroom. Over his shoulder, he says, "She won't fucking talk about it. She had abortion, though. And some months back before that happened, dad almost killed the Gallagher kid."

"Gallagher?" Mickey chirps, his face smoothing from fury to hurt. He doesn't let Iggy see this as Mickey steps into his room and his brother turns around, tossing him a jacket.

Iggy just nods.

"Which one?" Mickey asks.

"The ginger," Iggy says like it's not the most awful thought for Mickey. Of course he does. Because Iggy doesn't know that Mickey was fucking that particular Gallagher. Doesn't know that Mickey still jacks it to his memories of Ian Gallagher's fucking dick. Doesn't know Ian hasn't ever looked at a cunt he felt like eating.

"You're full of shit," Mickey says, putting on the jacket and glaring at Iggy.

Iggy looks confused, then like he's about to laugh. "Not really, though," he says. "But I mean, she's screwing both of them. Who fucking knows."

"He hurt him?" Mickey asks, trying not to sound too interested. Then decided he doesn't care how interested he sounds. If Iggy asks, Mickey can simply say he's fucking itchy on the inside out of boredom, and Iggy will write it off because Iggy's spent time in jail and knows the feeling. Even though Mickey isn't itching from boredom. Not really.

Iggy snorts and starts walking out of Mickey's room. The house is empty except for them, so Iggy doesn't fear yelling loudly that their father pussied out for some unknown reason. Mickey comes up behind him after slamming bedroom door. He follows Iggy outside and into the dinged up car someone apparently stole while Mickey was locked up. Terry hadn't owned a car in at least ten years. Says they are risky because of being documented. Blah blah and something about staying under the radar. Mickey buckles up and then props his feet on the dash. Iggy starts the car and their off. Finally Iggy says that since the pregnancy ordeal, all Mandy does is scream strings of curses in Terry's direction and end up in a toe to toe argument. So no, Iggy isn't going to bother blaming the razor on Mandy because she'll just go apeshit as soon as Terry mentions anything about it. Mickey hums out a laugh at this, chewing his thumb and glaring out the windshield. His stomach is in knots. When the car stops, Iggy cuts it off, then looks over at Mickey firmly. He's gripping the wheel still. "Maybe Mandy's pissy because the punk broke up with her," Iggy says. "I ain't seen that Gallagher around in a month."

Mickey's tired of this conversation. "She's not fucking Ian Gallagher," he sighs, rolling his eyes and spitting a piece of dead skin. The skin hits the window and he stares at it for a few seconds before looking over at Iggy.

"No," Iggy says, confused, "not if he broke up with her."

Mickey fights the urge to strangle his brother. Settles for sneering. "She was never fucking Ian Gallagher," he repeats, agitation starting to sound out in his tone.

Now Iggy looks intrigued. "Makes you say that?" he asks, glancing Mickey over.

Mickey unbuckles, his temper flaring and he doesn't know why. He thinks maybe its the conversation mixed with where Iggy has taken him. He opens his door too fast and the hinges squeak like they are about to pop off. Iggy's mouth is agape and he looks mad about Mickey's mistreating the car. Iggy climbs out as well, furiously looking at Mickey over the hood.

"What's your deal?" Iggy barks.

"Mandy's not screwing Ian god-damned-Gallagher!" Mickey yells again, skin crawling, fist hitting the hood once.

And now they are arguing over something ridiculous. Like usual. Something that, so far as Iggy knows, isn't either of their business. Except it is Mickey's kind of. But not really, since he and Ian broke it off.

"How the hell would you know?" Iggy growls, probably wondering why Mickey gives so much of a damn.

And really, why does he? Mickey doesn't even know. Just like he doesn't know or think about it before he bares his teeth and says to the top of his lungs, "Because Ian's a fucking f—'' But he stops himself as he suddenly realizes, eyes going wide and sucking in his bottom lip. He looks off to the side and shakes his head. "Never mind," he says, not missing the look on Iggy's face.

"He's a what?" Iggy asks, coming around the car and catching Mickey by the arm as the younger of the two tries to make an escape to the front door of the apartment they've pulled up to.

Mickey shakes him off and shoves Iggy's chest, scowling. "Drop it!" he seeths. Now more angry with himself.

Iggy stands back, looking Mickey over like his brother has spouted fives heads. But he shakes it off and brushes past Mickey toward the door. Thankfully for Mickey, Iggy's more interested in getting laid than figuring out why Mickey is suddenly so knowledgeable about their neighbor's sex life.

* * *

_Author's Note - Hope you guys like the first chapter. This is my first step into the Shameless writing realm. I'm usually just a reader, but was encouraged to start writing after a tumblr friend practically begged me to. So here you go, Brandon, hope you liked my shitty writing skills, and thanks for betaing! _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Tw****o**

Two things happened as a result of Mickey going with Iggy to the apartment; he screwed Karen Jackson, hated it, and wound up being offered a job at the strip club that Karen's roommate is working. Bouncing. Something he will probably be great at. So all in all, Mickey's day has only been half bad since getting out of jail. Plus, now he won't have his probation skank forcing bullshit jobs down his throat. Of course, now he's worried about an STD because everyone knows Karen Jackson fucks just about everyone.

When Iggy pulls up beside the house, Mickey practically hurtles out of the car and rushes to the shower, thinking that later he'll swipe some antibiotics from the pharmacy. Iggy, one foot out of the car by the time Mickey is already half in the house, gives a strange look. Mickey's sure his brother thinks something is up. Mickey has been off since getting picked up from the pin. And it's obvious. He's acting strange because of Iggy's earlier, big announcement, and now because of the aftermath. Because Iggy picked Mickey up with the intent of throwing Mickey a release party over at Iggy's girlfriend's place, the stripper. Which had been cool, and Mickey hadn't gotten pent up until Iggy mentioned Karen Jackson and Mickey needing to get laid since all he has had around him in jail was dick. And Mickey soured right after that. Soured because he had to prove himself to his brother; had to do something he didn't want because he had to. And partly because of Iggy's comments about gays and jail. Shit really got under Mickey's skin and now he is scrubbing himself in boiling hot water. As he washes clean of Karen, stress, and Iggy's homophobia, Mickey fumes at how difficult keeping this mask on his face is becoming: real fucking hard. One day he knows it will come to a head and the mask will either crumble or miraculously become permanent. He doesn't know which he will prefer.

Shutting off the water, Mickey leans against the shower wall, forehead against his palm, fingers tangled in his growing hair. Stands there, water dripping off his body, just breathing and calming down. Until he's cold. When he gets out and wraps a dingy towel around his hips, someone is banging on his door. He jerks his head up, through fastening the towel, and hears Mandy screaming something about needing to piss. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom, Mickey squawks back at his sister to chill her shit. Its as the last word leaves his lips that Mickey realizes Mandy had no idea he was home until now. The warden had released Mickey a day early, hence why Iggy picked Mickey up instead of Mandy, who was supposed to be in school right now. Senior year and all. This explained why she was screaming at Iggy, thinking Mickey was him.

There is a pause on Mandy's part. A muffled conversation in the hallway, Mandy's voice and a male who is neither of Mickey's brothers. Someone who Mickey is certain is Ian Gallagher. Mickey catches a chill when he hears Ian stomping away. Not a minute later the front door slams. Mandy's talking to herself, confused. Finally she speaks. "Mickey?" She asks, voice surprised and angry, but not at Mickey.

Mickey wills the sick feeling in his guts to go away. It doesn't. He takes a deep breath and walks through his room, picking up a pair of boxers and a shirt on his way to the door. He drops the towel and slips into the boxers quickly, then jerks open the door. He's already pulling the Static-X shirt he once stole from some kid at a concert over his head when Mandy steps in, frowning.

She crosses her arms over a tank top that might as well be a bra. Now way is her thin jacket keeping her warm. And she crosses her ankles and closes Mickey's door behind her so that she can lean back on it. She's wearing fuzzy boots and what Mickey thinks might have been a decent, lengthy skirt before Mandy hacked it up so high that bending over should be made illegal in her case. The fishnets she has on are ripped to shreds. And her hair is different than Mickey remembers. She hadn't visited him in jail, like last time. So Mickey hadn't expected the short bob on his sister's head. Still dark brown, though, and sans ridiculous highlights like a fucking rainbow. The haircut makes her look too much like their mother. Mickey quickly decides that he hates it. In fact, if Mandy had meth wrinkles and didn't dress like a street walker, she would look exactly like their mother.

"You're out early," Mandy comments dumbly, fooling with the sleeve of her jacket. That angry look is washed off now and she looks bored.

"Thanks, Captian Obvious," Mickey says, straightening out his shirt, "hadn't noticed." He turns around, then says, "Go piss then," waving over at the bathroom while he rummages through the crap on his bed for the bag of pot Iggy stole from Karen and what's-her-face.

Mandy shifts around, shrugs, then walks over and picks up the bag of weed from the nightstand, as if reading Mickey's mind. She's already shoved all of his stuff in the floor and replaced it with her ass, legs swaying as she sits on the nightstand, packing the pipe she pulls from her pocket. Mandy holds out her hand, flapping it open and closed, arching a brow at Mickey expectantly. The pipe's already to her lips.

Rolling his eyes, Mickey shoves all of the stuff on his bed against the wall and sits down, legs pretzeled, on his musky bed. He twists around and finds the lighter under his pillow, quickly. He shoves it into Mandy's grubby, waiting hand. Grabs the pipe from his sister after she takes two burns. Mickey's first hit burns his thumb, plus he choke on it. Mandy laughs.

"Jesus, Mickey," she says, snide, "what else did you forget how to do while you were in that shithole?"

He coughs out the rest of his fit, then takes a proper toke, holds it, then breathes the smoke into Mandy's face. As Mickey exhales, he says, "Shove my foot up your ass. Care to let me get in some practice, bitch?"

A smirk touches Mandy's mouth. She reaches over and punches Mickey hard in the shoulder. Hard enough that he rubs the spot after handing over the pipe and lighter. Hard enough that he almost winces, but holds back.

"Cunt," Mickey murmurs as Mandy takes her turn. He waits a minute, watching the grass burn through the clear pipe. His eyes flick from the pipe to Mandy's feet. She's kicking her shoes off. He turns his head, watching one of the shoes sail. The shoe thunks against his dresser, knocks a dusty, stolen cellphone into the floor. Mickey knits his brow, read to say something, when the other shoe comes up and smacks him in the chin. He grabs it from his lap and hurls it back at Mandy. Squealing, she curls up out of the way, then laughs when Mickey misses. "Thought you had to fucking tinkle?" Mickey teases sarcastically, laying back and propping his feet up on Mandy's knees.

Mandy shakes her head and hands down the goods, smacking Mickey's foot but doesn't throw it off. "Ian did, but he suddenly had some emergency he'd forgotten about," she says, clearly suspicious of Ian's reasoning, pursing her lips and rolling her eyes.

The name drop turns Mickey's stomach all over again. Even though he knew Ian would come up into conversation at some point. He closes his eyes, scratches his stomach, hoping that Mandy will change the subject for him. If Mickey does it, he fears his motives might be obvious. He holds onto the pipe, letting it rest on his chest.

"What the hell?" Mandy sighs. "If you're done, pass it back," she grouches.

"Fuck off," Mickey bites through clenched teeth.

As his sister growls in frustration, Mickey's heart threatens to beat clean out of his chest. A sudden emergency was Ian's excuse to to run out after he heard Mickey's voice. Mickey bets that Ian will be in hiding for quite some time. Maybe the guy will quit school, grab his GED like Mickey had during his first time in juvie, and run off to join the Army. Forgo West Point just to permanently avoid Mickey sooner. Mickey isn't sure how he feels bout that thought, just knows that the taste is hard to swallow.

The first month of Mickey's incarceration, he'd been worrying that Frank Gallagher's mouth had gone off. When Ian Gallagher didn't visit for the first two months, Mickey wondered if Terry Milkovich had killed him. Wondered if Mickey himself was next. So the entire second month of Mickey's lock up, he spent looking over his shoulder for fear of being shanked in the showers because his Nazi father wouldn't want a queer son. Then at the end of that month, Mandy had written a letter, wishing Mickey a merry Christmas, a happy eighteenth birthday, and lots of good luck for the months to come. Because from the third month on, Mickey had been placed into the county jail instead of juvie. Served out the remainder of his year as the adult that he now was. Not a week into county, and Mickey had finally came to terms with why he was behind bars again. Over who.

In jail there isn't a lot of leeway to do much besides workout, sleep, and think. The latter, Mickey has done a lot of.

Done is fucking done. He is done with Ian Gallagher. And done with expressing that side of his own sexuality. Has finalized it. A year is enough time to move on. He figures he'll die before he sees forty, but there is no need to speed it up by having his ass shot off for being part fag. So Mickey tries not to care too much when he thinks about Ian getting hurt. When he thinks about the only reason Ian must have had for fleeing this house so fast; that Ian isn't over Mickey. Tries not to feel too terrible about hiding behind behind bars just so he had time to collect himself, rather than man up and deal with the situation head-on.

For a second, as Mandy leans down and takes the pipe from him, Mickey lets himself think that in another life, he might have let the things he felt for Ian Gallagher grow. In a life where happy endings exist. Too bad Mickey's life hasn't had a happy anything. Too bad it probably never will.

Once-upon-a-time, Mickey remembers having hope.


	3. Chapter 3

_Side note. . .be forewarned about one, slightly racist remark toward the end of this chapter. That is not my personal thought! It's Mickey we're talking about, and just look at the father he has. Like it or not, Terry has obviously brushed off on his boys. I like to think Mickey got it the least, but even still. _

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"So how many cocks did you suck in jail?" Colin asks, laughing through a mouth full of eggs. He is sitting at the table, chowing down, while Mandy washes out the hot pan. Iggy snickers from his own place at the table, can of soda in hand, half listening, half carving a jagged design into the tabletop.

Mickey rolls his eyes as he turns around and digs through the refrigerator for some leftovers that haven't grown mold yet. He's starving and really not in the mood for his brother's jokes. Pulling out what was Mandy's poor attempt at meatloaf just two days ago, Mickey holds the glass container against his hip and gives Colin his best bitchy face. "Could you not?" Mickey quips. "Usually I can humor your bullshit, but I'm feeling less than stellar this morning," he finishes, then swings around and pops open the container. He doesn't bother with a plate or spoon. Just grabs a chunk of meat and bites into it.

Behind him, Colin snorts,"Don't get your panties in a wad, Princess." The ogre is too amused by himself.

Annoyed and still groggy, plus slightly nauseated since waking, Mickey accidentally bites into his tongue. "Fuck!" he screams, drops the food, and sucks on his tongue, a fist to his mouth in rage. Somewhere in the mix of screaming and throwing his food, Mickey knocked off the rest of the meatloaf. The glass didn't shatter, but now food is everywhere and Mandy is harping in his ear. The blood pounding in his temples is enough to drown out most of her words and Colin's laughter. Iggy has had enough decency to chuckle then walk out the kitchen door. His knife and decent looking carving are forgotten. He is probably smart enough to know this situation is about to escalate. Mickey is a real dick in the mornings. Quick to beat hell out of everything. Iggy remembers well because he has first hand experience.

"Seriously, Mickey!" Mandy's voice rings in as Mickey's pounding head subsides. "You are cleaning that shit up. I'm sick of being a god damned work horse around here!" she yells, contradicting herself as she picks up the glass container and hurls it into the sink.

Mickey, having been hunched over against the counter, stands up and glares at his sister, dropping his fist. Colin's still laughing, feeding his muffed up face. Mandy's staring back at Mickey, a ticking time-bomb.

He's been home for a week now. In that week, Mickey's figured out that Mandy is a little different now. She acts like their mom did right before disappearing. Mickey isn't going to express himself, but inwardly he's petrified that his sister is getting close to doing the same thing their mother had.

Iggy walks back in, looks from Mickey to Colin quickly. His eyes dart in the same direction as Mickey's are. Mickey has to hand it to Iggy: out of everyone in this room, Iggy knows Mickey's best, even though that isn't saying a lot. He would have to too, since he came in to hurry for that knife he'd left behind stupidly. Too bad Mickey is beating him to it. Colin never sees it coming until Mickey has literally jumped onto the table, slid across, and put the knife against Colin's shocked lips. Mandy squeals. All is quiet, save the clang of Colin's fork when he drops it, and Mickey's heavy panting. He's staring bullets through Colin, arm poised, knife pressed hard, muscles tensed enough to give him a back ache later. The table's digging into his knees.

"You need to shut the fuck up," Mickey growls lowly, partially scaring himself with his tone of voice, "before I cut your god damned tongue out and tip your head back enough for your blood to drown you." He can literally watch the chills break out on Colin's arms, when his brother slowly raises his hands in surrender, eyes wide. Mickey pulls back the knife. Throws the knife fast and hard, so that it stabs into the wall, just beside the booze rack. He gets off the table fluidly, smacks Colin on the neck, sneering, and grabs the jacket that isn't his from the floor. It sounds fairly windy outside. Iggy, standing by the kitchen door, eating the dead skin on his lips and cracking his knuckles, scowling, moves aside for Mickey as the youngest Milkovich boy storms past. His favored brother is fast on his heels.

By the time Mickey reaches the mailbox, he hears Iggy crunching across the dead grass to catch up.

"What the hell was that?" Iggy blurts, grabbing Mickey's shirt-tail. After Mickey's whirls around, Iggy lets loose the shirt and shakes his head, face scrunched up, burned out cigarette dangling from his lips. He spits the spent butt to the ground beside them, glaring. "Are you fucking crazy, Mickey?" he bellows, spit flying against Mickey's cheek.

Mickey shoves his brother. The nausea in his stomach threatens to let go the flood gates holding back his vomit. Grabbing his stomach and waving Iggy off, Mickey stumbles into the street. He he shoots his middle finger up. "Sit and spin, Asshole!" Mickey calls out, words like acid on his tongue. He has just about had it with the bullshit that has been going on in his own home, since his jail release. Mandy's a fucking twat now. Colin needs a bullet through his skull. And Iggy won't lay off Mickey's ass about going back to those bitches' place. Mickey's mind is a wreck with self conflict and identification. And above all else, Mickey is pretty sure someone slipped something in his drink at work last night. He left early because of starting to feel strange. He feels worse than he has since his twelfth birthday, when Terry let his sons get sloshed on cheap liquor. Worse even than the first time Mickey tried cocain and crash on it.

Iggy's still standing in the grass, beside of the tipped sofa, yelling at Mickey to get his shit together, as Mickey, walking backwards, bumps into a kid on a bike. The kids yelps, crashes to the ground. Mickey spins around fast, scowling, ready to bite the fucker's head off. Today sucks ass. Iggy's cussing ends and Mickey hears his front door slam, signifying Iggy has given up. Mickey looks down at the mass of clothes spilled out from a bag around the little girl's shoulders. Sees the peek of red hair covering her pale face. The brat's crying because her calf got scrapped. While Mickey spouts off curses, she wipes her hair out of her face. He stops mid snarl when he recognizes the girl's face. Mickey looks down at Debbie Gallagher. His brows knit together and a frown chizzles across his lips. His eyes dart over all of the clothes. He lets his gaze linger on the bag while Debbie tries to push the bicycle off of her and sit up. She manages to sit up, but the bike is still weighing her down. She holds her bleeding leg with one hand while wiping her tears and mingled hair with the other. She's grubby, unlike the usual Gallagher who isn't Frank. Looks like she has been sleeping in a ditch. Mickey doesn't think. He just grabs the bike and throws it off of the kid.

"Stop crying," he growls at her, "it's fucking gross."

Debbie looks up at him then, and purses her face up like a lemon. "Get away from me!" she spits, growling like some wild animal in her throat.

Mickey wants desperately to smack her, but holds back. He balls up his fists by his sides. Hocks a loogie on the ground near Debbie's hand, and then, because he's not a complete fuckwit, Mickey extends a hand down to help the kid to her feet. His one good deed for the rest of this year. She, naturally, smacks his offered help out of her face, and struggles to stand on her own.

"Fucking fine, then," Mickey huffs and turns to walk away.

"You used to be friends with my brother, Ian?" Debbie's voice, sniveling, rings, echoing the neighborhood streets. Her words cut into Mickey deep, make him cold to the bones, stop him walking. His stomach sinks even before she adds, "If you see him, please tell him that his sister, Debbie, found our dad. That everything is going to be okay again."

Pausing, waiting for his heart to slow, Mickey chews his tongue for the right way to tell Debbie to leave him alone. "Tell him yourself," he mumbles. But his thoughts are away from Debbie, away from his entire surrounding. Mickey's mind is on Ian Gallagher for about the hundredth time since Iggy's idiotic theory. Really, about the billionth since breaking his probation. Found Frank Gallagher? Mickey didn't even know the looser was missing. But why would he have known? Even still, why is this girl asking Mickey to play some sort of messenger? Didn't all of the Gallaghers crowd into that house like Mexicans in a mini-van?

"I can't," Debbie says weakly.

Mickey frowns and looks over his shoulder. "The hell not?" he asks, gruff, unaware why he is even talking to this twelve year old little girl. If someone sees him, rumors in this town will spread like wildfire.

Debbie stares down at her bike, her spilled clothing. Rubs her arm and holds it, lips moving around like she is trying not to cry again. If she does, Mickey is so dropping this nice act. "I'm not allowed to see him now, even when I get chances," Debbie says. She squats, stuffs the clothes hastily into her bag, and shoulders it. "And our social worker doesn't pay a lot of attention to family meetings outside of my foster home's permission," she lets out, then grabs up her bike and swings a leg over it. "So if you see Ian, or even Lip, can you pass it along?" she asks, wheeling up beside Mickey slowly. She looks up, hopeful, but not sold on his aid.

Mickey just stares at her, probably making a face. He shrugs. "Whatever," he says, noticing how much this kid looks like her brother.

Satisfied, Debbie smiles at Mickey, thanks him brightly, and begins riding off, over the curb. Mickey watches her leave and ponders on what the hell he'd missed while in lock-up.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey guys! Sorry this took a while. Personal issues lead me to have a bad writer's block, but I'm back on my game now, and will likely get another update out in the next day or two. Maybe even tonight, but I make no promises.

IMPORTANT INFO: I went back and changed Mickey's other brother, who I had named Tony because of other writes doing so, to Colin. The guy who plays Iggy confirmed the other brother is named Colin. So yeah. Mickey, Iggy, Colin_ (not Tony)_, and Mandy.

R&R please!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Mickey had spent over an hour simply walking the streets of his neighborhood; had rested under the El to smoke a joint before actually going back home. Immediately after catching his high, he feels regret because now he's thinking about the drug test his asshole of a new manager is throwing out tonight. Because someone, not Mickey for once, has been stealing shit from work. However, once walking through his kitchen door, Mickey is extremely glad to have huffed down something to chill him the hell out. At his table, decked out in full on army gear and talking animatedly to Mandy, is Ian Gallagher. The redhead freezes mid sentence, hands still poised in what he'd been describing, and stares wide-eyed at Mickey. Mandy scowls, leans back in her chair, popping her gum. Mickey turns his focus to her. Stuffs a hand into his pocket and plucks a loosey he has left over, then extends his hand to Mandy because, as he says, heart pounding, his lighter shit out earlier. Huffing, Mandy rolls her eyes, motions to the mess of meatloaf still in the floor.

"Bullshit I'm giving you anything. Not until you clean up your mess!" She growls, unaware of her brother's discomfort and growing panic attack, and uncrosses her arms to wave angrily in the direction of Mickey's would've been breakfast.

Biting the inside of his cheek, gnawing until he feels the skin break, Mickey pulls his hand back. Balls it into a fist beside of his hip. In his best casual tone, even though he feels like he will burst, Mickey says, "I'll clean it later. I feel like shit, Mandy, just hand it over."

"Go fuck yourself," Mandy huffs, laughingly. "I'm not your fucking god damned doormat," she bites, then she turns her pursed face to Ian, ignoring Mickey's presence entirely.

Ian on the other hand has his eyes glued to Mickey's face; Mickey can feel it, but doesn't dare glance over. Mickey's ears are burning. He's angry that he is blushing. Its a nervous reaction he's had since he can recall. Ian knows it pretty well and probably sees it now. And just when Mickey's about to curse at Mandy and storm off, he is surprised to see Ian dig through the breast pocket of his ROTC uniform. Mickey looks over slowly, knitting his brow, lips curved down, and sees the lighter delicately placed in the palm of Ian's outreached hand. Mickey glares awkwardly at the lighter. His sister probably wonders why the fuck Mickey hasn't reacted fast and brash, as usual. Normally, he'd have snatched the lighter with a crude comment. Smirked and tucked the lighter into his own pocket openly and proud. Instead he's just staring at Ian's hand, getting semi hard because his mind keeps going back to that hand being wrapped around Mickey's cock and stroking at just the right pace. He swallows and grabs at the lighter. Lights the cigarette quickly and tosses the lighter onto the table, in front of Ian.

After he takes two drags, Mickey balances the cigarette between the corners of his lips, and turns to the mess on the floor. Without much thought, Mickey grabs the haggard broom and mortifying dustpan. He sweeps up the mess in seconds and dumps it into the sink. Blowing smoke through his nostrils as he flips on the water and garbage disposal, Mickey hears his sister cursing under her breath, then bitching to Ian, who snorts just the once and scoots his chair out. Mickey's holding onto the counter, head pounding, a little dizzy. He's hot all over and not in good terms. Intently, he stares at the food washing down his sink. Doesn't dare look behind him when he hears Ian moving around.

"I'll see you later, Mandy," Ian says and clears his throat. "I gotta get back before Miss," he drags out the title spitefully, "Helen decides to book me in a room other than Lip's as some sort of punishment."

Mandy's telling Ian goodbye, standing up to hold onto his belt loops and give the guy some sappy hug. All Mickey can do is frown bewilderingly into the sink, pluck his cigarette and blow smoke. His stomach is tight because of what his mind has rushed into deciding on. Quickly Mickey spins around. It occurs to him in the blink of his eyes, that he has no fucking clue what is even going on in the Gallagher house now. Hasn't since the night he last sat beside of Ian in the middle of the baseball diamond, listing to the boy ramble on about Lip's big screw up by getting and staying with Karen Jackson. No idea. He has no idea what Ian's life has thrown the redhead's way. Probably something awful. It usually is. Judging by what Debbie said earlier and the small mention Ian has just made, Mickey is going to assume the family has been broken up and placed into some type of foster care yet again. It's happened before and will most likely happen at least once more before Ian goes off to march with the big boys.

Mickey takes a drag mid turn, leans back on the counter using his elbows, and stares bravely at Ian despite the flips his innards are forcing upon him. He's blowing the smoke out in Mandy's agitated face as he says, "Saw your kid sister earlier. She wanted me to tell you she's found Frank." After Mickey's finished, Ian's face does a series of emotional changes.

Finally, still holding onto Many's hips, Ian settles for surprise. He lets go of Mandy, who smiles and punches Ian's shoulder, congratulating him. Meeting Mickey's uncertain stare, Ian grins.

"She say anything about him coming home?" Ian asks.

It feels weird having Ian speak to him after all this time. At the same time, Mickey can't get past this sudden feeling of ease that has washed over him. He blinks a few times, hopes that he wasn't pulling a face, a clears his throat. Dropping the hand holing his cigarette, Mickey looks down at the billowing, second hand poison. He licks the crook of his lips and shrugs. Nonchalant. Fake as fuck and if he knows it, Mickey's sure Ian can smell the guilt a mile a way. Like a rotting corpse.

Fuck it. He thought he was over this. Apparently letting go is a lot harder than a year mulling it over. Facing the problem full on brings out too much emotion, unlike sitting back away from it all and just talking shit to oneself. Like he'd had it all figured out. Well he hadn't and now it's obvious to Mickey. Now Mickey just wants to curl up and scream.

"Hey, Mick," Mandy sasses sharply, loud. Like a fucking harpy, "you awake in there? Ian just asked you a question!"

Mickey shakes his head. Puffs on his cigarette and walks past the duo fast. Shoves down onto the sofa and doesn't look over when the couple steps into the doorway.

"No," Mickey yells, pissy, and he bends forward and picks up a forgotten game controller. He takes up on the part one of his siblings has left off. It's a game he has beaten before, multiple times. But the repetitiveness is keeping him sane while Ian pulls Mandy toward the kitchen door and out of sight. Mickey's grateful in some way that Ian picked up on his mood and got Mandy the fuck away from him.

What Mickey's not grateful for happens four hours later, when Ian's standing outside the club Mickey works at.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

He falls back against the floorboards, dust wafting up around him, clouding his vision. His eyes sting, so he rubs them with sweaty fists. Coughs once and, breathing heavy, turns his face away as the dust settles around him again. It's dark outside, so hardly any light is coming in through the windows of this abandoned shop, long forgotten. Mickey lays there, panting, naked, beside of Ian Gallagher. Ian's looks at him. Studying Mickey's features, his expression, trying his hardest to figure out what's going through Mickey's mind. Tough luck on that one. Mickey thinks this but doesn't day it. He runs a hand over his face and sits up. A piece of the chipped floor ate its way though his left knee. He wipes the blood once, sees it rush out again. Ian sees it too. Quickly Ian reaches over and grabs a shirt. It's Mickey's. He tosses it to Mickey, who holds the cloths against his bleeding knee. Sucking in a sharp breath, Mickey holds the shirt against his knee and punches the floor with his free hand.

"Fuck," Mickey groans, shaking his head.

"You should have said something," Ian comments, already standing up and finding his boxers in the dark.

Mickey looks up at Ian and frowns. He wasn't cursing about the pain in his knee; Mickey was damning himself for letting the earlier situation outside of The Playhouse escalate into sex. He watches Ian dress his lower half. Sighing, Mickey leans forward on his raised knees and presses his head into his forearms.

"Gallagher," Mickey says, quietly, "I don't want this."

Ian stops moving, half bent down to pick up his shirt. He huffs a disdainful laugh. "Really?" Ian croaks. "Are you fucking serious, Mickey?"

Wetting his lips, Mickey flaps his mouth a couple times but never actually speaks. His stomach is sick. His chest is aching worse than it did the first time he dumped the best fuck he's ever had. He wants to swallow everything he's just said and press Ian into the nearest wall, crushing their mouths together. Simultaneously, Mickey wants to keep order in this little world he and his family live in. Ian is chaos. Not the kind his family will accept. He hates this. Hates Ian. Hates himself. Is overcome with shame and regret; two feelings which Mickey hasn't felt but maybe three times ever, including this one.

Ian chuckles. The sound is deep and guttural. Mickey listens as Ian slips on his shirt. "Wow," Ian keeps saying, shuffling around Mickey a moment more. It's dark, and Mickey keeps losing sight of the freckled soldier. And suddenly Mickey's pants and other garments are being thrown violently at him. He yelps and starts shooting his arms up to shield himself.

"What the hell, Ian?" Mickey bellows, sneering into the darkness as he fights off his own clothes

Finally the assault stops.

"Damn you, Mickey Milkovich. Stay the hell out of my life," Ian growls, unseen still.

Mickey's eyes widen and he jumps to his feet when he hears Ian's retreating footsteps. He bounds into his jeans, forgetting his underwear. Still unbuckled and pants barely around his hips, Mickey rushes after Ian. He can make out the contour of the other boy's back, of his bright hair.

"Ian, wait a god damned second!" Mickey rumbles as he reaches the door. His face is panic solidified. His throat is seizing up. Why? Why is he reacting like this? He'd talked himself down, he thought. He wants everything to stop. "Just fucking stop!" he yells out, unsure if he's actually directing his words at Ian or himself. The door opens and midnight light spills in. Ian slams the door and rushes out, but Mickey catches the handle and shoves it back open. "Hey!" he calls, scowling, holding his pants up with one hand.

Ian's already crossing the street. Mickey winces at the pain in his knee, aware that blood is seeping through the jeans. Stands there, swallowing until the ball in his throat goes on. He chews his bottom lip. He made this decision months ago. He needs to stick with it. For once, Mickey wants only to keep his word. He's gotten so bad at that lately. Gripping the door-frame a little too hard, Mickey whips around. He limps back inside and finds his clothes.

After dressing, he goes home and sits in the dark at his kitchen table. Listening in on his father and Mandy's screaming match in the hallway. It's muffled. He can't really understand anything that's going on and doesn't pretend to, so he stand up and gets a beer out of the fridge. Drowns the arguing out by turning on the garbage disposal for no other purpose. Mickey then sits back down and begins nursing his bottle. He stares off into space. When Iggy and Colin come in through the kitchen door and seat themselves around Mickey, it takes the youngest boy quite a while before he realizes his brothers' presence. Once he looks up and sees the two, Mickey sighs and purses his face, exhaustion marring his features. He notes the half-on ski mask Colin's sporting and the way Iggy keeps looking back at the door. It's clear that his brothers have just gone on a beer-run that perhaps went sour.

"Rough night, too, huh?" Mickey asks, voice uninterested. Eyes drooping a little.

"Christ, Mickey," Iggy snorts, rubs a hand through his choppy hair, "who died?"

Colin finds the remark funny. He's smirking, all teeth, about to speak when the sound of their father being slapped resonates throughout the house. Colin's smile drops. All three boys jerk their heads in the direction of the living-room.

"I hope you rot in the deepest pits of hell!" Mandy barks, stomping through the darkened living room. She passes in front of the only lit lamp in the entire house, and Mickey sees the tears on her face in a flash. Her hair is messed up because she clearly hasn't straightened it. Her short curls are wild. She's barely wearing any clothes, and that's the last detail Mickey notices before his sister slams the front door and disappears.

Slowly, Mickey looks back at his brother, eyebrow cocked. Iggy licks his back teeth, looking bored. "Saw that one coming," Iggy says to himself, still digging for a piece of food that's probably caught in gums.

Colin shakes his head and pulls the mask off, throwing it to the floor. "Man, I need to get the fuck out of this place," he breathes. "This shit, whatever it is, is getting old."

Mickey sucks in a deep breath, holds it and rises both brows while he looks down the neck of his beer. His father walks into the kitchen, not shocked to see the three boys sitting around and eavesdropping. Scratching his bare stomach and scowling.

"What?" Terry asks, threatening as he stares at Iggy, who has taken to crossing his arms as he leans back, frowning at his father. "If you got something to say, Son, I'd be real careful about how you go about it," Terry warns.

Mickey looks over at Iggy, curious. Iggy's fuse is about as long as Mickey. Which isn't long period. Yet when it comes to their father, the boys, even Colin, have come to grin and bare it. Iggy's not looking like he's baring anything but a chip on his shoulder. Mickey, studying his kin's intense gaze, feels a swell of adrenaline rush through him. He knows exactly what's about to happen because he's seen the disaster four times before with Iggy, once with Colin, and has two cases of personal experience. Hell is about to break loose between the devil and his spawn. Usually those not under rapid fire flee the scene. Mickey has no plans to do that, even though he can see from the corner of his eyes, Colin slinking out of the room. Blood pumping, Mickey watches Iggy stand up fast. Leaping up and out of the way as Iggy shoves his chair back, the table with it, Mickey stands back, beer busting on the floor. The beer fizzles, bubbling up on the linoleum around Mickey's boots.

Too fast, Terry growls and puts up an arms, blocking a swing Iggy has foolishly taken. The world feels like it's going in slow motion now. Grunts, skin against skin, cussing: these things rattle through Mickey's head as he watches the fight unfold. Mickey has no idea exactly what the fuck has been going on between his family, especially Mandy and his father. But whatever it is, Iggy has clearly caught on. Mickey's brother is like a rapid cat.

Thinking back on his first day out of the pen, Mickey recalls all of the comments Iggy made about Mandy and Terry. And clinic bills and Gallaghers. And abortions. And it clicks with Mickey. Not necessarily because of everything Iggy has said, but mainly because of a vague memory Mickey had written off as some kind of messed up dream. One where he stumbled into Mandy's room, drunk. It had been an accident. Mickey remembers opening his sister's door, seeing her buttoning her bra. Remembers seeing his father's back then slamming the door after slurring out an apology. He woke up the next days and thought all of it had been some kind of lunatic's dream. Now the puzzle kind of falls into place. Now he's certain it probably wasn't dreaming.

Terry pushes Iggy's forehead jerkily, and Mickey's brother goes sailing back onto his back back. His head cracks against the table leg. Mickey's eyes go wide. His blood is still rushing. His adrenaline hasn't let up. In fact, now it's rolling. Baring his teeth, Mickey ignores the searing pain in his hurt knee and dives onto his father. Terry gets in one punch to Mickey's chin after being surprised. Mickey bites into his tongue, screams out, then spits blood into Terry's face.

The whole situation is crazed. Like that scene Mickey remembers reading back before he dropped high school. In Lord of the Flies, when the kids go bananas, drunk off power, pent up anxiety, and rage. Where they loose it, run around the fire, and beat the one with sticks. The next thing he knows, he's straddling Terry and sending fast punches against his father's face and neck. For once, he's winning. Only because he had the element of surprise. He's winning until Terry gains clout and knees Mickey hard in the groin. Yelling out, Mickey rolls off of his father, holding himself and grinding his teeth through the sickening pain in his lower stomach. Terry scrambled to his feet and kicks Mickey about twice in the side. Mickey, crying out and trying to defend himself, barely hears the shot when its fired. He only notices something has happened because that third kick never comes.

Panting, Mickey uncovers his face, pulls his body from the curled up position he had taken to. He looks up, terror stricken and prepared for the worst. His father has turned around. A piece of the ceiling falls between the kitchen and living-room doorway. The smack of ceiling to floor is the only sound besides Colin's labored breathing. Mickey moved his eyes from Terry's back to Colin. The eldest brother is stepping back. He drops the gun and holds up his hands.

"Enough," Colin says, voice struggling to hold steady. "Jesus, dad, you're going to kill him," he says, face pulled into that of worry and anger. Colin is going into survival mode at this point. Mickey can already smell the backstabbing before hit happens. That's Colin's way; defend his brothers until it starts looking bad for him, then pussy out and go with the opposition.

Terry points down behind himself. "Do you see what he did to my face?" the aging man yells. Mickey can see the spit and blood flying from his dad's mouth.

"Just forget it," Colin says, "it's not worth it anyway. Fuck 'em."

In his own way, Colin is saving the night. Whether or not he actually intends to at this point. Mickey kind of thinks Colin means to help still.

Terry twists his neck and looks down at Mickey. He looks disappointed and full of anger. Yet he shocks Mickey by waving a fed up hand, then shoving his way past Colin. Terry disappears for a few minutes. Mickey stays put, even though his eyes are landed on Iggy's unmoving body. Mickey's paniced because he can't tell if his brother is actually breathing. But he's afraid to move just yet. Colin has already picked the gun back up and pocketed it. The odd hero takes a few steps forward until the floor creaks. Quickly, Colin glances over his shoulder, eyes wide, holding his breath, frozen in place. Terry stomps through the living room, clothed, and storms outside, leaving the front door wide open.

Colin lets out a long breath, then rushes forward. Holding his side, Mickey gets on his knees and crawls over to Iggy and Colin. Colin's checking Iggy's pulse. Mickey hisses out in pain from both his knee and now his ribcage. Something broken. He groans and drops back down fast, beside of Iggy. He's still holding his side when he lands on his back and calls out, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in pain. His fingers dig into his wounded side.

"He's okay," Colin sighs. Mickey feels his brother's relief doubled within himself. "You think I should call an ambulance?" Colin asks, opening Iggy's eyelids and watching the boy's pupils dilate.

Mickey lolls his head, watching the display of caring. It's a rare sight in this family.

"Yeah," Mickey is barely able to say. "He's bleeding pretty bad, dude. I think it's a given."

"You all right?" Colin asks, sitting back on his haunches and rubbing his sweaty hands on his jeans. He looks down at Mickey, brow furrowed.

Mickey just nods. But no. No. He's not all right. Certainly not mentally.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Mickey finds out he is fired from the Play House the next day at the asscrack of dawn. His drug screening came back positive for pot. Big shock there. Honestly, Mickey is a little glad. He hates that bar and all the women who throw themselves at him. The drooling men chasing after all the dancers, some violent until Mickey tosses them out. Mostly Mickey is sick of dealing with Karen Jackson. Being around her every night makes Mickey feel uncomfortable. And it's not even because she wants to screw him again; she doesn't. It's that mickey can see on her face, the knowing. Her small comments here and there. The bitch knows Mickey likes dick more than pussy and the fact has Mickey scared to death. His secret wasn't ever supposed to go beyond himself and whoever he fucked. Karen makes Mickey nervous mainly because he doesn't understand how she's caught on. After all, he fucked her and got off. That should have done the trick in hiding his true sexuality. Should have. Apparently didn't. But regardless, everything is mostly gravy, now. He'll find a new job and never see the bitch's face again if he can help it.

It's three o'clock now, and Mickey's probation officer is sitting across from Mickey, bitching about the lack of employment and reasoning behind Mickey's loss.

"You have to get off the dope, Michael," the clown says. Actually says that.

Mickey snorts. He plops his ankle over a knee, shakes his foot, and smirks. Stares daggers through the weaselly looking guy before him. The man's name is Thad. He's Probably in his late twenties or early thirties, greasy, slicked back hair, button up flannel shirt, and a goatee. Mickey sits there, doesn't speak, and waits for the fool to move on, to tell Mickey he's free to leave. When Thad finally sees Mickey to the door, wishing Mickey luck and expressing a need for fast employment, Mickey hocks a lugee right by the man's foot and turns on his heel.

Get another job. Mickey scoffs. Like that's easy. Yet Mickey knows that if he doesn't, Thad will find one for him. One that Mickey has no desire to take, he's sure. So, taking out a cigarette to suck on, Mickey trots out of the L exit and towards the one place he's almost certain will hand him a job. He knows with very little doubt that Linda will be more than happy to hire security again. According to Mandy, the neighborhood grocery has been overrun with theft ever since Mickey's quitting. And who better to hire than the neighborhood's most revered thug who cleaned up once before. The only down side Mickey sees to this scenario is working with Ian again. But that's an easy fix if Linda will simply work Mickey during morning hours, while Ian's playing school boy.

"Damn," Mickey sighs to himself and flicks his dead cigarette. He stands in front of the Kash and Grab with his arms crossed, frowning. Brow drawn tight.

Ian might have enough gumption to tell Linda not to hire Mickey. And Linda will listen regardless of Mickey's suggestion.

Standing there, debating on whether this venture is even worth it, Mickey catches sight of the guy in question, back to the door, arms up, and aggravated. Ten seconds later, Ian goes crashing out the door and onto his ass. Mickey cocks a brow, legs muscles going tight and poised to run into line of fire. It's almost instinct with Mickey to help out family. And fuck all, Ian has wormed his way into Mickey's circle, regardless if the redhead still wants to be. Regardless if Mickey still has a desire for it as well.

Instinct kicks in harder when the black punk in a ski mask kicks Ian's unprepared face and makes a run for it. Trail of money and all. Mickey's on the go before he puts a lot of thought behind his action.

He shoves woman and her pooch out of the way in the process of running up on the curb. Mickey grabs the thief by his shoulder and slams the prick onto the ground. Element of surprise. At this point, there's no turning back. Not even now that Ian is jogging over. Mickey bares his teeth, standing on the guy's chest. His rib cage is screaming at him from underneath all the bandages. He makes the mistake of looking over his shoulder at Ian. Ian's panting, blood gushing from his nose. He looks shocked to see Mickey. Angry at the same time, but also glad. It's a strange expression that Mickey has only seen once before. Except last time the look was followed up a heated first time fuck.

But the mistake of looking back at Ian has cost Mickey the upper hand. Beneath Mickey's foot, the thief is twisting around, pulling the knife from his sock. He's fast. Mickey doesn't see this, but Ian does. All Mickey sees Ian's eyes go wide, his mouth fall into an o. When the knife goes into Mickey's calf, Mickey's too busy looking confused at Ian. And then Mickey's screaming and falling to his knees around the bastard under him.

Growing up around two older brothers and a loose-cannon father has taught Mickey to react fast and ignore pain until doing so is impossible. So after he falls, Mickey's fast to grab the fucker around his waist. The man was almost escaped. Now he's under Mickey again. Forgetting Ian's presence, Mickey loses it. He's pissed now that this fuck has stabbed him. In fact, the knife is still in Mickey's leg. Now this is personal. Mickey throws two punches, hard enough to feel cracking. He's screaming out like a banshee from pain, all while he assaults the thief. As he throws the third punch, Mickey uses his free hand to grab hold of the masked man's neck. He has the guy flipped onto his stomach now, and gets onto his knees over the asshole's back.

"You piece of shit," Mickey growls, spit flying as he lowers himself near the man's ear. "Apologize," he yells, furious.

The guy screams in pain. His eardrum is probably ringing. At this point, Mickey's back to noting Ian's presence. His mind kicks into overdrive, thinking up ways to get back on Ian's good side. Only to get his old job back, of course. But his stomach knots up with hope for Ian's good graces, all the same.

Holding the thief's head only a few inches up, Mickey shakes the man. Crying out, the man says he's very sorry for stabbing Mickey. It won't happen again. Mickey laughs.

"Not to me, you dumbfuck," Mickey says. "Tell this guy," he states, waving his arm out at Ian. But Mickey doesn't look at Ian. Not yet. He's unprepared for what may come, but has already jumped the shark and will follow through with this.

"I'm. . .I'm sorry?" the thief mumbles, confused and terrified.

Mickey bashes the guy's head once, not too hard, against the curb. "Like you mean it," he says nicely while the thief cries and drools blood from his busted mouth. Exposed because the mask is slowly coming off.

"Mick," Ian drawls, wary. He knows how Mickey can get when he's carried away.

So they're back to short hand name calling. Mickey almost smiles. He shakes the thief again. "Hurry up, Douchebag, or I'm feeding your face to the assault," Mickey croons.

Gasping out his heartfelt apology, the thief begins blubbering. Sickened, Mickey shoves the man's head and gets up. He struggles to stand, and once he's up, Mickey puts all of his weight onto the good leg, the other arch awkwardly and bleeding. Knife still erect and proud. Not a minute later and the thief is running away. All of the cash is laying in the street, hanging mostly out of the thief's bookbag. Ian bends down slowly to pick it up. He stares at the bag, stuffing the stray bills back into it. Finally he turns and looks at Mickey, puzzled, and shoulders the bag. His big brown eyes trail down to Mickey's hurt leg. Pursing his lip, Ian sigh loudly. His face is guarded. Mickey expected no less.

"Well," Ian begins, and he squats beside of Mickey's leg, "it's not too deep." He reaches out and almost touches the hilt, but changes his mind. Hand awkwardly poised near Mickey's calf, Ian asks, "Do you want me to pull it out?"

Mickey's gritting his teeth from the pain. He looks down at Ian, wets his lips, and balls up a fist. "Do it fast," Mickey instructs, voice tight and pained. Ready.

Ian chuckles a little. "You should probably sit down for it, don't you think?" he remarks, cocky. Then Ian stands back up, and he's staring dead on into Mickey's eyes.

Mickey looks away fast. "Whatever," he gripes, "help me inside." he hops on his good foot, cursing under his breath and wincing in pain. And for just a moment, slinging his arm up, not even looking to see if Ian is going to go along with it, Mickey feels like everything is okay. Normal, somehow. No words between them, Ian dips under Mickey's arm, braces Mickey around the small of the back, and helps the ex-con limp into the Kash and Grab.

For the next hour, the store is closed.

* * *

Author's note: I totes broke my finger. So know that I'm dedicated to this story, because I typed this chapter out in horrible pain. Well, it wasn't horrible. But did hurt and cramp up some.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"Is it broken?" Ian asks, a cigarette dangling between his lips, ass firmly planted on the stool he pulled up beside of Mickey's in the stockroom. His eyes soak in the sight of Mickey's exposed upper half. His bruised stomach and the bandages wrapping around his torso. Mickey's shirt is tied up on his wounded calf.

Mickey is using two stools; one to sit on and the other to prop his feet up. He looks around and notices there is a fair amount of furniture floating around in the stock room. He doesn't bother asking why. He's sure it has something to do with Linda and her bitch of a spouse. Instead, Mickey fiddles with the hem on his makeshift leg bandage. This shirt is so bloody. He still hasn't washed it from the previous night in the abandoned house. It's filthy to the point that even Mickey notices. Splotched with dried cum on the underside, blood from Mickey's knee, Iggy's head, and now Mickey's calf.

"I'm gonna have to throw this away," he comments to himself. Absently. His mind is elsewhere.

Ian scrunches his face, displeased at being ignored. He's still holding the offensive knife. "What happened to you?" Ian asks, gruff this time, trying to bate an answer.

His eyes flutter over in Ian's direction. Mickey stops playing with the destroyed t-shirt. He licks the corner of his mouth, thumbs the drool away, and sighs. His eyes flee Ian's line of vision and Mickey rubs his temples. He wonders if Ian has any idea about Mandy and Terry. At that very moment, Mickey's chest balls up and feels about to burst. He holds back. Sucks in a deep breath, holds it, exhales slowly, and releases his temples. When he looks back at Ian, Mickey's face is a mask of calm. All while his insides are crying out. Mickey's god damned sick of faking everything, but now he has no idea how to stop. Quickly he thinks up a lie and spits it casually.

Ian stares at Mickey for a few seconds, then, calm and collected as he gently lays the knife down, says, "You're lying." He doesn't break eye contact for even a second.

Face twisting, Mickey scowls at Ian. "And just how the fuck would you know?" he snaps.

"For one thing," Ian says, meek, "you have a tell." A flash of nostalgia and pain goes across Ian's face. "Second," Ian forces out, growing more confident, "Lip and I were sent home this morning, only to find Mandy sleeping on my doorstep."

There is silence between them. Mickey's heart feels as though it may leave his chest.

"Also, Fiona says she saw an ambulance pull up in front of your place last night," Ian says. His comment is dead weight in the room. Echoing through Mickey's head. It turns Mickey's stomach. "Says she saw them wheeling someone out," he finished, cupping his hands between his knees and letting the smoke from his cigarette billow around his face. He reaches up and plucks it, wincing because the smoke is stinging his eyes. He flicks his ashes and waits for Mickey's comeback. When all Mickey does is stare at the floor, mouth partially dropped; when all Mickey can do is swallow and blink away the sting in his eyes, Ian asks, hesitant, "What's going on?"

Mickey swallows one last time. He's pissed at himself for getting so emotionally charged. Pissed at Ian for bringing it out of him. "Nothing," Mickey says, dismissive, and rubs his face quickly. He'd slap his own cheek if the action wouldn't seem bizarre. "It's not your problem, Ian," he says, clearing his suddenly scratchy throat. Because it really isn't Ian's problem. The guy has enough shit of his own to deal with. Not to mention Mickey doesn't do this heartfelt bullshit. So he tells Ian to forget it, crosses his arms, and bites down on the back of his lip to calm himself. He looks anywhere but into Ian's concerned puppy face.

Ian exhales loudly and pats his knees, fed up. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Well see, here's the thing," he begins, not hiding the aggravation in his tone, leaning forward and trying to make Mickey look at him,"it kind of is now that Lip's moving your sister into my house." He pauses long enough to sigh heavily once more. "She's kind of been my problem," Ian mumbles, looking away now that Mickey is eye balling him, "since you hauled off and shot your load on a cop."

The wheels in Mickey's head still before going into over drive. His eyes move over Ian's face slowly, halting on his chin. Mickey knits his brow and gulps down the building, nervous saliva that's pooling in his mouth. Sharp pains attack his stomach. His breathing feels tight. Mickey leans forward and hugs his abdomen forcefully.

Mandy once said she tells Ian everything. Mickey wonders if she means that literally. Would she dare confess sleeping with her own father? Thinking back on he and Iggy's conversation on the way to Karen's, Mickey recalls the brunt of his anger that day. Iggy had kept on about Terry trying to kill Ian for getting Mandy pregnant. Unable to contain himself, Mickey barks out a breathy, bitter laugh.

"How long have you known?" Mickey asks, trying not to allow his voice to shake. Doing a poor job at it. He stares hard at Ian until the redhead looks Mickey's way.

Ian's eyes are as big as saucers. Yeah. Spot on. Mickey scowls. The little shit. Why hadn't Ian told Mickey? How fucking inconsiderate. Ian would certainly depend on Mickey to tell him if Mickey had found out some fucked up news about one of the Gallagher bitches. Why not return the god damned favor. Mickey's blood boils. Being angry with Mickey over harsh words is not an allowable excuse. Not so far as Mickey is concerned.

"Known what?" Ian asks, eyes darting over Mickey nervously.

Giving one more laugh before dropping his head into his hands, Mickey glares at the floor and growls lowly, "Don't bullshit me, Gallagher. How long have you known about Mandy and my fucking father?"

Ian fumbles for a few seconds. He finally closes his eyes, looking guilty. Wetting his lips, Ian rubs the back of his neck. He says nothing until Mickey looks up at him again.

"How did you find out?" Ian asks. He looks incredulous. "Was it your dad on that stretcher?"

Honestly, Mickey is offended. His eyes bug. "No!" he yells. "Fuck!" Did Ian think Mickey had killed his own old man? Like it would even be a physical possibility. "No," Mickey trails, calming slowly. Because he can see why Ian's mind immediately went to that. Mickey's not an idiot. He knows himself; knows he is a hair-trigger just like his father. After all, the reason there is a problem between he and Ian in the first place is because of Mickey's swan dive into attempting a hit on Frank. His anger dissipates into a swell of despair. Even he can't pinpoint why the sudden depression. Except he knows this sadness has been building since yesterday night. Since the abandoned house. Even before his father nearly killed Iggy. Maybe even before the house, now that he really thinks about it. Mickey's mother was wrought with depression. When Mickey was twelve, the school therapist mentioned that such things are genetic. That Mickey should see a doctor. So maybe it's genetic. Or maybe Mickey's life is just way fucked up enough to depress anyone.

Mickey's throat burns and his eyes sting. He knows he's about to start with fucking waterworks. So he panics. Starts blinking away the start of tears, butting the heels of his hands into his eyes and growling in frustration.

Ian's surprisingly not shocked. He looks more concerned than anything.

"Are you okay?" Ian rushes to ask. He's getting off of his stool and reaching over.

Flinching away from Ian's hand, Mickey jumps up and shakes himself. He exhales slow and winces at the pain in both his side and calf.

"I have to go," Mickey says, careful not to choke. He's frantic. Moving fast towards the stockroom door.

On Mickey's heels, Ian grabs hold of Mickey's bare arm. "Mickey, wait!" he calls, desperate.

Jerking free, Mickey spin around and shoves Ian's chest. Ian stumbles from the force. His legs his a stack of boxed up laundry detergent, and he stumbles. But, being quick on his feet, Ian catches himself. He straightens up fast, eyes wide, looking just as panicked as Mickey now looks mad.

"Don't try and involve yourself in this!" Mickey bellows, pointing a finger in Ian's face. "You think _your_ family is fucked up? You don't know fuck all about my life in that house!" His voice is cracking. "You don't know anything!" he screams, face turning red because of his volume. He can feel the wetness on his cheek and doesn't even want to acknowledge the embarrassment. He may have seen Ian in tears more than once, but Ian has never witnessed Mickey breaking down. No one has. Except an empty bedroom. Cursing and groaning, pissed off, Mickey flails his arms and punches the wall beside of the door.

Ian is on the opposite end of the spectrum. Face as open as his fucking foolish heart, Ian holds both sides of his head, breathing heavy. "Because you won't let me in!" Ian yells back. His voice is raised, but he is not angry. After Mickey gives the wall a few more punches and his hand cracks a little, Ian begs for him to stop. "Just talk to me for once!" Ian demands. He reaches out and touches Mickey's shoulder.

Again Mickey frees himself. This time he throws open the door. "Get the fuck out of my face!" he rumbles and starts his run for the exit. Unfortunately, given his injuries, Mickey's run is more of a hobble at best.

Ian notices this. He puts his arms out to sides, exasperated. "You can hardly even walk," Ian says and rushes after Mickey. Mickey is sure to let Ian know he's fucking dandy. They stop before the door while Mickey jiggles the knob and tries getting out. Ian pushes at Mickey's bleeding hand. "You are not fine," he states, calm but his face is still upset. "Sit back down, Mick," he pleas.

Almost feral, Mickey bucks Ian off of him. The force is too much for Mickey's ribs, and he ends up calling out and grabbing his side with his hurt hand. With the other he punches Ian square in the jaw, screaming for Ian to stop acting like he actually gives two shits about Mickey.

"I'm not fucking acting, you ass!" Ian quips, spinning Mickey around and ignoring the pain in his jaw. In the same breath he confesses, "I care about you!" And he stops fast, gasping and letting go of Mickey all together. His eyes are wide again. But then, so are Mickey's at this point. He curses under his breath. "I must be crazy," Ian mumbles, blushing and holding his forehead. Completely beautiful. Completely unaware of Mickey's blood pressure. "Insane for still—" Before the words leave his mouth, Mickey is against Ian. Crushing their mouths together. It's a fast kiss. Forceful and unexpected on both ends. Mickey lets go and leaps off, cussing himself and wiping his mouth.

Stunned, lips swollen, Ian puts his weight on the store counter, leaning on his elbows lightly. He stares at Mickey. Mickey who has stopped almost crying, taken to holding the back of his neck and looking back at Ian in just as much shock and lust. Quietly, slowly, Ian asks Mickey to please sit back down.

Mickey swallows, Adam's apple bobbin and almost getting caught on the newly forming ball of sorrow in his throat. "No," he croaks out. Shaking his head, Mickey slows his actions. Allows himself time to breath; time to collect himself and think. When he opens the front door, Mickey blinks a few times, looking back at Ian.

"Just. . ." Mickey rubs his lower lip, pausing mid sentence because of the look on Ian's face. So he looks away fast. Because if he doesn't get out now, Mickey's going to do something he may regret for the rest of his life. For about the millionth time, Mickey tells himself that this thing, whatever they are, is over. He clears his throat and takes his first painful step outside. "Make sure Mandy's all right," he requests, "I gotta go."

Ian gives a bitter chuckle. "Mandy?" he says. His voice is like a semi truck, pulling Mickey down backward. "What about you, Mick?"

Mickey stops once more but doesn't look back.

"Like I said, you don't know anything."

"Yes I do," Ian says, firm. "I know more about you than—"

"Just stop right there," Mickey cuts Ian off. He doesn't have enough energy left in him to be hateful now. He says nothing more, simply leaves in a hurry.

Mickey makes his way into the heart of Chicago before he stops speed walking. He comes to rest against the underside of the L. Bangs the back of his head on the cement a few times, palms flat against the cold surface. Naked back pressed into the grain. His leg is on fire. Not to mention his bruised up side. The tourniquet Ian tied up on Mickey's calf, the shirt, is soak through with old and fresh blood. Mickey slides down onto his ass, bad leg's knee arched. Getting his breathing in order, Mickey rests his forehead against his knee.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"So you got fired?"

Those four words freeze Mickey. Karen's voice is like ice through his veins.

"More like you came up with a creative way to quit," she says from behind him. "Bet your probation officer is really miffed," she practically sings.

Standing at the foot of the hospital's main entrance, waiting on his sister, Mickey bites down too hard on his gum; to the point that his teeth grind through and crack together. He takes in a deep breath, rubs goop from one eye, then turns around. Sure enough, Karen's standing patiently, arms folded over her jacket. It's been a week since the drug test, since Ian, since taking a knife in the calf. Last week, Karen had blonde hair down to her hips and now it's black again, cut short, and her facial piercings are back. Immediately Mickey figures the slut is depressed. He hasn't been too familiar with Karen, not since the day his dick was buried between her legs. They've worked together most nights at the strip club and that's really it. He'd hoped getting freed from that clap infested shithole would free him also of Karen Jackson and her knowing eyes.

Snapping his gum, Mickey shrugs. He says, "Just as well. The smell of diseased vagina in that place is what nightmares are made of."

Karen rolls her eyes and gives a courtesy laugh. She's quiet for a few seconds. Mickey looks around, brow knitted, wanting to walk away and end this, whatever it is. And he shifts his feet, ready to do just that when Karen tells him she was fired too. He just looks at her.

"Grayson's pissed because I won't suck his dick," she informs, like Mickey was curious in the first place. Karen is the most open slut Mickey's had the honor of knowing. She makes Mandy seem like a virgin.

Mickey hums in the back of his throat, face the epitome of boredom and annoyance. His hands, deep in his pockets, twitch with the urge to get out fast. Inwardly, he screams for Mandy to hurry her ass. How fucking long does it take to discharge someone.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Karen asks, brows grooving as she looks over Mickey's shoulder to the hospital entrance. Beady eyed, as if she's caught Mickey at a ballet.

"My brother," is all Mickey really says, then gives up and pulls his pack of smokes and lights one up. He blows the smoke up, turns back around, and stares at the entrance instead of Karen.

Her eyes light up. She tilts her head, feigning concern. Mickey thinks Karen is the realest fake person he's ever met.

"Which one?" Karen asks, then adds, "Alex's been wondering if Iggy ditched her."

Smirking around his cigarette, Mickey shakes his head. "Because getting a blood transfusion and having a skull fracture is definitely what my brother would rather be doing for a week," Mickey says sarcastically.

"Holy shit," Karen breathes, "what happened to him?"

Mickey flicks his cigarette and lets the remaining smoke blow out his nostrils. He glances at Karen from the corner of his eye. Instead of answering Karen, he chooses to reverberate her own question. Only in a harsher manner. Like asking her if she's here for her annual aids screening.

Laughing, Karen lets the comment roll off her shoulders. She worked with Mickey barely a month and already she's used to his comments; treats Mickey's words as if they're funny. Something to smile at. Kind of like a certain redhead that hasn't left Mickey's thoughts for less than an hour of the past one-hundred and sixty-eight.

"That was last week," Karen says. "Today's chlamydia."

Mickey finally turns to face Karen again. He eyes her mouth for a split second and says, full of acid, "I see you failed the herpes pop quiz."

She rolls her eyes and sighs heavily. "Actually," Karen begins, her feet kicking at some of the broken up cement as she points to the rash all over her lower lip, "this is from a dirty needle at a tattoo parlor. And _that's_ why I'm here."

"Which one?" Mickey asks.

"Neds."

Brows arched, Mickey sucks in a tight breath through his teeth. Behind him, the doors open up and he doesn't notice. "That was your biggest mistake. Neds is fucking grody," Mickey tells Karen. He's not lying or being a snide asshole for once. Neds is South Chicago's most unsanitary parlor. In fact, Neds is where Mickey and Colin received their knuckle art. Two months spent laid up in bed, sick as a dog, and still, three years later, Mickey sometimes feels like he's about to vomit out of the blue. Still he sometimes sees spots all over his vision and gets an insane itch in his hands. Mandy has always stood her ground that he and Colin should have seen a doctor after those tattoos. Woulda, shoulda, coulda, most certainly didn't.

Karen opens her mouth to respond and ends up going wide-eyes and slack jawed. "Jesus Christ!" she harps. "You look awful!"

Frowning, Mickey turns around to see Mandy helping Iggy down the few steps. His eyes search over Iggy, whose head is slant wrapped. Iggy's on crutches. He's pale and looks high in a bad way. Mandy, with her arm around Iggy's waist, hovers close to him, mothering. His sister glares at Karen and Mickey's not sure why Mandy's panties are suddenly in a twist just because of Karen's presence. Sure, the girl isn't the best of company, but she's no reason to puss up.

Mandy shoves a short hair behind her ear and put her free hand on her hip. She stills, and Iggy does too, only he looks more about to throw up than anything else.

"Hey, Karen," Mandy says, words dripping in loathing so much that even Mickey feels sting. "How's your baby?" she asks, smiling cruelly, eyes zeroed in on Karen's pained expression.

What the fuck? Mickey is completely in the dark now. Just when he'd begun to think he knew a little bit about something that had gone on while Mickey was locked up, he's once again made painfully aware that no one cares to fill him in on anything. Karen, who talks to fill pretty much any amount of silence, informed Mickey recently of fleeing her batty mom's house because of something about marriage and trying to find herself. She'd mentioned Lip and his father ruining the better part of who she'd once felt she was. Blah blah bullshit and more blah. But she'd never once mentioned having a baby. And not that Mickey even gave a shit. But why did Mandy?

"Mandy," Karen greets, tart, and Mickey notices the slight quiver when she speaks. Suddenly she's on the move. Karen bundles her jacket around her hips and marches up the stairs, scowling and eyes down cast. She stops just beside Mandy and looks up at Iggy, who is for sure going to puke any second. To him she says, "Hope your head's okay, Ignoramus. I still have to kick your ass at Mad Gab." With that, she storms into the entrance.

As the door swings closed, Mandy snorts out a laugh, purses her face, and glares at Mickey. "If either of you two are fucking her, I swear to—" she does get the rest out before the hospital door swings back open violently.

Karen, arms crossed, eyes swelled up with tears, bares her teeth, tells Mandy she can go fuck herself and that it goes double for Philip Gallagher. And then she leaves again, this time even more dramatic, if it were possible.

Mickey cracks up laughing, bent over, hugging his achy rib cage.

"Fuck," Iggy drags, trying to laugh and looking pained.

With great restraint, Many doesn't slap Iggy or pummel Mickey. She tells them both to shut up and thirty minutes later they're all three sitting in front of the boob-tube watching reruns of Mythbusters with Iggy hopped up on anti-seizure medication and Mandy filing her nails. Once Iggy drifts off and his head lolls onto Mickey's shoulder, the youngest brother decides that he's had enough excitement for one day.

Rather than throw Iggy off of him, Mickey has the common sense not to further damage his brother's skull. So for once, Mickey eases up and makes sure to motion for Mandy's attention. Not like she understands, though. Ass halfway up while he cradles his older brother, Mickey scowls at Mandy and nods at Iggy.

Mouthing her confusion with a rude face, Mandy throws her hands up, silently telling Mickey she's dumb as hair. Not really her intention, he's sure. Even more aggravated than when he first realized Iggy was drooling on him, Mickey sighs, struggles to free and arm and points down at Iggy. "Get him," he hisses quietly.

"Oh," Mandy says fast and sit up, pulling Iggy up straight. The fucker doesn't even stir.

Once all is well, Mickey stands up and straightens out his clothes. As he's dusting off, Mandy looks up at him, chewing a fingernail, file long forgotten.

"Where are you going?" she asks, half interested.

"The fuck do you care?" Mickey yawns, then says, "Out."

Suddenly Mandy looks frazzled. Eyes wide, and drops her hand and sucks on her bottom lip. "What if dad comes back? I'm going home in like, ten minutes, Dude," she says, then looks anxiously at Iggy.

Her words make Mickey's heart skip a beat. All day he has been hanging out with Mandy at the hospital. For a while there, Mickey had convinced himself that everything was back to normal. Except he'd forgotten one small detail.

"Fuck off, Mandy," Mickey groans. "You are home."

She crosses her arms and exhales slowly. "No," she puts it simply, makes Mickey's chest contract, "I'm not having this conversation with you again, Assface. I don't live here anymore. And I don't want you letting dad know I'm living at Ian's, either. Or Colin or Iggy."

Mickey sighs, woefully, and rubs his scruffy face. "I won't," he repeats quietly a few times, the stares blankly at Mandy. Finally, he waves at Iggy's sleeping form and asks, "Okay, so what am I supposed to do with him?"

Mandy stands up and pats Mickey on the shoulder. "Quit bitching," she says, smiling as she shoulders her purse from the coffee table, "you'll figure it out."

Already she's halfway out the door when Mickey calls out to her that he has to find another job. That taking care of an invalid will prohibit that very much so. But she's gone and Mickey is left talking to only himself.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Mickey was right: taking care of Iggy is preventing him from doing much else. Especially from looking for a new job. It's Tuesday again, probation officer visiting day. Already aware that he's going to be told he'll have to take a job given to him by the officer, Mickey brings Iggy along. This way he can defend himself against his probation officer's accusations of laziness. Mickey has been anything but lazy lately.

Before going to the appointment, Iggy expresses a need for some smokes. He's getting better and sick of these nicotine cravings, he complains. Mickey just gives in because he's itching to see Ian, if only for a few minutes. Even if all that passes between them are snide remarks and a lot of faking dislike. So they waltz into the Kash and Grab. Actually, Iggy sort of walks sluggishly. Iggy's the one to reach the counter first, since Mickey's off getting a Red Bull. By the time Mickey reaches the counter, Iggy's already leaning down too far and looking piked. Holding his unbundled, stitched up head between two fingers. Eyes wide, Mickey practically leaps forward and holds Iggy by the back collar of his Misfits shirt.

"Dude, you should skip out on those," Mickey comments casually, frowning at the pack of reds sliding across the counter.

Ian looks between the brothers, telling Iggy the cost.

Without looking up, Iggy asks Mickey, "Hey, Mickey, you got thirty cents?"

Sighing, Mickey gives his brother all the change in his pocket, which is barley enough. He's sure smoking even one cigarette is going to set Iggy back a few days. But unable to state his actual concern, Mickey just shrugs and snatches a snickers bar from the counter corner. He peels it open with his teeth and free hand, then takes a bite, his eyes lingering on Ian's. Stealing this is mainly for show. Plus he really wants some candy.

The redhead puts the money in the til and shuts it. A smirk graces Ian's lips as he leans to the side and points to Mickey's snickers bar. "You know," Ian starts, "since your arrest, Linda's been losing a third of our inventory to theft."

Mickey tries to remain passive, squashes out the light on his face, the smile creeping up. He takes another bite of his snickers bar and pops open the Red Bull. "Yeah?" he burps out after a long glug.

Ian rolls his eyes, grin in place. His elbows rock on the counter top. "I heard you got shit-canned from the strip club," he says. "Through the grape vine and all."

Iggy snorts as he thumps the pack of smokes on the heel of his hand. His back is to the counter, holding up his slouching form, since Mickey let him go in favor of a drink. "Grapevine?" he murmurs.

"Sure did," Mickey sighs out, dropping his guard for a second while Iggy pulls a cigarette out and sticks it between his chapped lips. While his brother pats himself down for a lighter, not looking their way, Mickey hands Ian a five, then pockets his change.

"Do you want your security job back?" Ian asks, flat out. No beating around the bush. No masking his optimism or leering. No nothing. Just lays the offer out on the table.

Mickey cocks a brow and catches Iggy's furrowed glance at Ian. He stuff the snickers wrapper in his pocket and takes a long drink of his Red Bull. Sitting the can back down, he stares at Ian for a few seconds, then asks, "You ain't even going to shoot it by Linda first?"

Ian huffs a snicker. "Linda's desperate. Plus she's pretty forgiving," he informs, the mutters, "She'd have to be."

And while Iggy has no clue what the comment was about, Ian and Mickey share a knowing smirk over Ian's past tryst with Linda's coward husband. Not to mention her ever hiring the neighborhood thug to begin with. Mickey wets his lips and thumbs the crook of his mouth. If he says yes, the pros are: not having to get bitched at by the probation officer, an easy and clean job, and seeing Ian every day again. The cons are: less pay than what he's used to since The Playhouse, dealing with Linda, and seeing Ian every day again. Really Ian is the deciding factor. After what happened between them last week, Mickey's torn.

Done is fucking done except when, of course, it's not.

"You're going to be late as fuck," Iggy groans. His cigarette drops to the floor and he grabs his head and stomach.

Eyes popping, Mickey looks over at Iggy fast. "Ah shit!" he snaps. Iggy is about ten seconds from hurling. Ian's keen on it too, because he's already tossing the trashcan up and over the counter for Mickey to catch. Which he does and just in time for Iggy to violate it. And while Iggy stumbles into the bathroom to clean up and splash his flushed face, Ian closes up the shop temporarily and he and Mickey sit in the back and pass a joint between them.

Ian holds the burning joint, barley a roach at this point, between his fingertips. He winces down at it and takes the last few drags. Mickey watches Ian inhale; watches Ian's throat sink in and right itself when Ian exhales the smoke up in the air.

"Do you think he's okay in there?" Ian asks, nodding in the direction of the restroom.

It takes a few seconds before Mickey pulls his eyes away from the dip of Ian collar bone. Before he realizes he's been spoken to. Blinking fast, Mickey looks up.

"Your brother," Ian repeats, the hint of a smile on his lips because of Mickey's delayed reaction, "is he—"

Shaking his head and waving of Ian's unfinished question, Mickey says, "He's fine. This happens at least once a day." Then he ads, "The dumbass shouldn't have smoked."

Ian looks Mickey over while snuffing out the joint under his shoe. He leans back on his pile of boxes, hands angled awkwardly behind him. They sit there staring at one another until Ian eventually takes a deep breath, his chest rising. He opens his mouth. But no words come out because Mickey beats him to the chase. Already Mickey was expecting Ian to bring up the other day. That brash kiss.

"Don't," Mickey says fast and quiet, eyes drifting in the direction of the bathroom door. "Don't dare bring that shit up right now. _Not_ a good time," he says, voice full of uncertain authority.

Laughing with no mirth, Ian brings his hands forward and smacks his knees. He then runs a hand through his hair and rolls his eyes. All in what seems one swift motion.

"But shouldn't we talk about this? Jesus, Mick, I miss—"

Just the glare on Mickey's face stops Ian's admission.

Ian sighs. "Whatever," he grumbles, slouching forward and crossing his arms. He kicks the boxes with his sneaker heels.

Mickey watches Ian. Thinks Ian looks very childlike when he pouts. He glances over at the bathroom door again, then his eyes drift back to Ian. "I'll do it," Mickey says, "on one condition."

Face confused, Ian stares hard at Mickey for a minute of awkward silence. "Well? What's your condition?" Ian eventually asks, urging Mickey to finish his sentence just when the toilet flushes.

"Don't bring _it_ up," Mickey whispers firmly, owl-eyed as the door behind him eases open.

Ian squints, puzzled, and asks,"Bring up what, exactly?"

"You know," Mickey rushes to say. "Now drop it."

As Iggy trudges over, realization dawns on Mickey, who is still staring at Ian. Ian, who is looking more confused as seconds tick by. Ian may not know exactly what Mickey's forbidding. After all, there are a few different options. But fuck all if Mickey's going to ever explain what he means. Doing that would be counterproductive, as it would only bring up the forbidden subject: their relationship.

They are not boyfriends. So what are they? If anything. Mickey's always seen this as more of a friends with benefits type of deal. Ian hasn't. Mickey knows damn well that he's leading Ian on to touchy grounds. He knows Ian will eventually start an argument over how to define them. Especially after Mickey's prior tirade over the matter.

Without really saying goodbye, Iggy and Mickey leave the store and head over to the probation officer's place. The entire walk, Mickey mulls over the things going on between himself and Ian. It's painfully obvious to Mickey that all of his efforts mentally ending the relationship were in vain. As soon as he set eyes on Ian again, everything he'd told himself went down the shitter. He wonders if Ian has gone through, sort of, the same inner struggle. And deep down, he knows this thing, this relationship, whatever it is, is going to come to a boil and burn both of them. Fuck's sake. It has once before.

"What the fuck am I doing?" Mickey sighs out, rubbing his temple. They've reached the office.

Iggy frowns down at his brother. "Huh?" he grunts.

Mickey's eyes bug a little. He hadn't meant to speak out loud. He shakes his head and walks up the stairs, telling Iggy to mind his own business.


End file.
